


Where I Go, When I Go There

by wordaddiction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Love Triangle, M/M, Prostitution, Slow Build, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordaddiction/pseuds/wordaddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has no interest in the revolution, but after an excited Jehan draws him in, he finds himself doing things he never thought he would. Smitten by the leader in red, with a growing affinity for the girl in rags, his life changes drastically...though if it's for the better or worse, he's not quite sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Invitation

“Are you sure they fit?”

“They’re perfect, Grantaire. Really. I have not met your match in cobbling,” Combeferre stood, looking down at his feet as he wiggled his toes around in the leather boots. The brunette sitting in front of him furrowed his brow, evaluating his work even now, after having been assured of its quality numerous times. He sighed and got to his feet.

“Thank you, Combeferre. I’m glad you trust me with your feet,” Grantaire flashed the man a grin and brushed off his apron, then gestured for him to follow to the front of the shop. Combeferre gathered his things and paid for the shoes.

“Thank _you_ , R. I’ll be sure to tell _les amis_ that they should never purchase boots again if they do not purchase them from you,”

With one last grateful smile and a pleasant exchange of goodbyes, Grantaire saw the blonde off with a wave, then reentered the shop. He threw his polishing cloth over his shoulder and knelt to busy himself in the caring of leather. There were two more orders still to be cut and measured before he could leave, and the sun was already yawning in its ever-sinking position in the sky.

It wasn’t until dusk had completely fallen and he was working by the dim, flickering light of a half-burned candle that he heard the door open. Grantaire tilted his head as he stood, wondering who could possibly have such vital shoe needs that they would come past sunset. Perhaps Combeferre had encountered a problem with his boot. A tear, maybe. A give in the sole. He straightened and meandered into the front room, wiping his hands on his polishing cloth.

The figure that stood idly near the counter was most assuredly _not_ Combeferre. He was shorter, with darker hair and a whimsical gleam in his eye that one would never find in the scholar’s. A slight smile hung crooked on his lips as he drummed his fingers against his arm, which was clothed in a flowing shirt and deep blue vest.

Grantaire stepped forward, into the burning candlelight. “Can I help you, _monsieur_?”

The figure turned his head at the noise, his slight smile melting into a gleeful grin. He moved closer to the shoemaker, unfolding his arms and sticking out his hand expectantly. “You must be Grantaire!” he exclaimed, taking R’s hesitant hand and shaking it vigorously. “Combeferre was just speaking wonders about you at the café, and I simply would not believe that such a skilled cobbler worked so near and we’ve never heard of him! So I figured it would be best if I were to stop by and see for myself,”

Grantaire’s eyes grew wide as he stared at the young man, who was brighter and more exuberant than anyone he had ever seen. He laughed warmly at the praise, returning his cloth to his shoulder. “That’s very generous of him. I’m glad he was pleased with the shoes. And you are…?”

“Oh! I can’t believe I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Prouvaire. Jean Prouvaire,”

“Ah, Jehan! _Oui_ , Combeferre has spoken highly of your writing,”

The poet immediately turned an impressive shade of pink and almost visibly swooned. “He’s wonderful for saying so, but I just dabble, really. A poem here or there. You know, nothing extraordinary,”

“Seems extraordinary to me,” Grantaire said, leaning against the counter. “I couldn’t squeeze a sentence from these hands, let alone a poem. I’m sure your work is as impressive as ‘Ferre made it out to be,” Jehan blushed and looked down at his feet, a hand reaching up to run through his brown hair. “So, Jean Jehan Prouvaire, was this merely a social visit, or have you come to order some of my famous leather shoes?”

The man looked up, that warm smile seemingly permanent on his lips. “Of _course_ I’m going to buy some of your shoes. I must see for myself what all the fuss is about, after all. I can return tomorrow, if you’re busy, though,”

Grantaire shook his head and motioned for him to follow as he returned to the back room. “I was just cutting the material for some other orders. It’ll be no trouble at all to get your measurements,”

“Wonderful!” Jehan bounced after him and sat down in the chair that he was instructed to reside in. He looked curiously about the shop, his eyes wide in a manner that mocked innocence and goodwill. Grantaire thought the man resembled a living embodiment of a pastry, all light and twinkling and sweet, as if he were continuously surprised by the goodness of the world. R shook his head and smiled to himself. It was lovely to meet a man with such an amicable disposition, but he could never see himself being that way. The world proved to be more bad than good, and it took enough energy to act as if it were anything to begin with, let alone act chipper and happy to be alive. The shoemaker got to his knees and began unlacing Jean’s boots, then set them on the floor.

“So tell me, Grantaire. How is it that you are so well acquainted with Combeferre and he still has not dragged you to one of Enjolras’ meetings?” Jean asked, leaning back in the chair as Grantaire took out his measure and began marking numbers on a sheet of parchment.

“Oh, he’s tried. Believe me, he’s relentless. It’s just…not really my area of expertise. Freedom, rebellion, activism,” the raven haired man shrugged and pulled a large sheet of leather from the table, placing it beneath the other man’s foot. “I don’t really care for it,”

“You don’t care for freedom?” the poet raised an eyebrow. R sighed.

“It’s not that, I…I don’t see much of a future for the revolution,” he admitted, etching marks into the leather around Jehan’s foot.

“You believe we’re all fighting for nothing?”

“No! No, of course not. I just don’t…I’m not…I wasn’t trying to offend you, _monsieur_ ,”

Jehan laughed and waved off his stammering with a careless hand. “I am not the least bit offended, simply curious. I can see how it might seem…useless. But it’s empowering, really. It’s a purpose, something to live for. And it brings the lot of us together. You should consider it. And please, call me Jehan,”

Grantaire nodded and switched to marking the other foot. “It just seems a bit…naïve. Thinking that you can change the world. I think I’d feel like a fraud if I attended a meeting,” He finished with the markings and slid the leather out from beneath his feet, then began helping him with his shoes.

“You might,” Jean agreed, standing so that he could finish donning his boots himself. He bent to lace them and then straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “But you’ll never know unless you come. There’s one tomorrow night at the café. I trust you know where it is. I look forward to seeing you there,” he flashed him a wild grin and slipped out the door, leaving a few sous on the table as a tip. Grantaire stood dumb for a moment before swinging around the corner and catching the sway of the front door as Jehan left. He rushed towards it and stuck his head outside.

“I didn’t say I would come!” he called after the slight figure descending into the darkness of the street.

“But you will!”

With that, he was gone, leaving Grantaire with the smell of animal hide and shoe polish and the ghosting curiosity that made him grudgingly admit that the poet was probably right. 


	2. A Giving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire refuses to admit that Les Amis are pretty cool dudes.

Grantaire stood in front of the door, hands wringing together as he stared intensely at the engraving, “ _Café Musain.”_ He was unsure if it had been the seduction of friendliness or the curiosity of purpose that had moved him, but either way, it had brought him here, unable to leave and yet unable to take the step to go inside. After all, he wasn’t like these men. He didn’t believe what they believed, he didn’t think the way they thought. He felt he would be lying just by stepping foot inside.

“Grantaire! You came!” He felt a hand clap him on the back and turned to see the poet’s slim figure and his careless grin pointed up at him. He couldn’t help but give a small smile in return.

“ _Oui_ , but I’m not sure I’ll stay. I really don’t think this is the place for me, Jehan,”

“Nonsense. Come in, have a drink. You don’t have to do anything but listen and enjoy good wine,” Jean grabbed his arm and swung open the door, pulling him inside. Grantaire couldn’t object to an invitation like that, especially from the man who had delivered it. A bit of wine couldn’t hurt. He allowed himself to be thrown into the crowded room, which was wild with conversation. Men seemed to fill every corner, laughing and talking and drinking. A small group of them were huddled over a table, eyes transfixed on a map. Grantaire could see Combeferre’s familiar form in the group, his head turned to discuss something solemnly with a tall blonde who had a serious look in his eye and a tight line on his lips. The rest seemed to be engaged in less promising activities, making the shoemaker feel a bit more at home.

“Everyone! We have a new guest!” Jehan yelled, placing his arm around Grantaire’s waist and pushing him forward into the room. “This is Grantaire!”

The brunette blushed as eyes moved towards him, snapping his gaze back to Jehan. “That really isn’t necessary, I’m just here to watch,”

“And watch you shall, my sweet. We hardly ever get new members, let us revel in this,” he chimed, turning to speak with a man who approached him.

Grantaire was just about to make the argument that he wasn’t a new member, he was just here for the one meeting to see what all the fuss was about, when he heard a voice beside him.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre stood, a small smile tugging at his lips. “After all this time of refusing to come, and Jehan pulled you in after one night? What on earth did he do to change your mind?”

“I suppose…I just wanted to see what I was missing,”

“Well, perhaps one day he will teach me how to be more convincing. I’m glad you’re here, _mon ami_ ,” He placed a hand on R’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

“That’s highly doubtful. Charm like mine cannot be _taught_ , ‘Ferre. Surely you know that,” Jehan sang as he broke into the conversation, pulling the man he had been speaking with into their makeshift circle. “Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac. I’m sure you’ll get along well,”

The shoemaker nodded and offered a soft smile to the new acquaintance, who had curly black hair similar to his own and a wide grin that appeared permanent. “I’ve heard so much about you,” Courfeyrac beamed, taking Grantaire’s hand in his own. “Though, I must admit, Combeferre failed to mention how attractive you are,”

R’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth to speak, but was thankfully interrupted by Jehan, who promptly elbowed Courfeyrac in the ribs. “Not everyone is attracted to anything that moves, Courf. Control yourself,”

The raven haired man quite visibly pouted, pulling the poet towards him by the waist and pressing his forehead to the other man’s. “How can you expect me to control myself around you, _mon poete_?”

Jehan laughed and halfheartedly tried to push Courfeyrac away, but didn’t seem too distraught when he failed to do so. “You are impossible,” he said.

“No, I’m not. I’m improbable, but not impossible,”

Jehan rolled his eyes and forced the man off of him, sending an apologetic smile towards Grantaire. “My apologies on behalf of this one,”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Grantaire returned, finding the whole thing rather amusing. Courfeyrac was warm, and though his flirting was sudden and excessive, he still gave off the impression that it would be painfully easy to be friends with him. Courfeyrac grinned and stepped closer to him.

“See, Jehan? He likes me,”

“That doesn’t mean he wants to have sex with you,”

“You don’t know that. Why don’t we ask him?” Courfeyrac draped his arm around Grantaire’s shoulder and pulled him close. “What do you think, Grantaire? Do you want to have sex with me?”

R felt his cheeks redden and his stomach flip. Of all of the questions he had expected to be asked tonight, this was not one of them. “I…I’m not…you seem like a wonderful man, but…” he stammered, hating his own ineloquence. He felt the other man’s ribcage reverberate as he gave a booming laugh.

“Well, if you ever feel that you _are_ , my door is always open,” he gave one final squeeze of Grantaire’s shoulder before returning to Jehan. “He said I’m a wonderful man,” he said giddily, taking the poet’s arm in his and leading him away, but not before the shorter man had a chance to exasperatedly roll his eyes in Grantaire’s direction.

“What’s going on here?” A different voice entered just as Grantaire was laughing quietly to himself at the absurdity of the whole situation. He turned to see the blonde that Combeferre had been talking to earlier standing stiff and tall in front of him, a harsh look in the cool of his blue eyes, his jaw tight.

“Oh, er. Hi. I was just getting introduced. I’m Grantaire,” He held out his hand, which the man grudgingly took and shook shortly.

“Enjolras,” he returned. “Well if you’re quite finished, perhaps we can begin the meeting,”

R was taken aback by his brevity, but decided it best to nod and take a seat at the bar. He had no idea how things worked around here, or what was expected of him, but ordering a bottle of wine seemed a safe way to go. He thanked the bartender duly and brought the bottle to his lips, eyes scraping over the happenings of the room. Jehan had taken a seat beside Courfeyrac, and Combeferre stood at the head of the room, shuffling papers. Enjolras made to stand beside him and surveyed the mass of people, waiting for everyone to take a seat in some way or another. Eventually, the chatter toned down.

“Shall we begin?” the blonde asked, sweeping his gaze across the room one last time before turning to Combeferre. “Have you got the pamphlets?”

Combeferre nodded and grabbed a stack of neatly folded parchment from the table, then handed them to Enjolras. The man began passing them around to the tables as he spoke. “We’ve spent an ungodly number of hours copying these pamphlets to hand out to the public at our rally tomorrow. You should all read them, and perhaps get better acquainted with our cause. Though we’ve been working to produce as many as possible, we can always use more. Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, could you please begin more copies? Courfeyrac, Marius, have you secured the square? Are you sure that there will be no disturbances tomorrow?”

“Enjolras, I’m quite certain that _we’re_ going to be the disturbance,” Courfeyrac mused, earning himself a scowl from the blonde leader. To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras deposited a pamphlet in front of him, too. He looked down at it for a moment before picking it up. _‘_ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité’_ read the cover. Enjolras returned to the head of the room, going on about the various tasks they still needed to get done before the rally. Grantaire sipped on his wine and opened the pamphlet, beginning to read about the views and philosophies that everyone seemed so keen to fight for.

Eventually, the lengthy testimonies to freedom and fraternity grew tiresome. It was not that he was opposed to the ideas, they just seemed a bit too unreal. Like when someone is lying to you to make you feel better, and you know that they’re lying, but you accept it anyway. Because it works. It makes you feel better and you’re grateful that it does. Grantaire had never been one for “accepting it anyway.” Which was why he did not belong here, a fact which he had suspected and now confirmed after listening to Enjolras for just under an hour and reading about their cause. He took a pen from a nearby table and began drawing absentmindedly on the parchment, half trying to tune out the rambling and half trying to actually sketch something definable. The drawing turned into a man, strikingly similar to the leader himself, holding a flag and frozen mid-cry, a wild fury in his eyes.

He had just finished the figure and began drawing careless decorations around the letters of the three title words, when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He stopped, turning to find a woman with dark brown hair and a small frame peering over his shoulder.

“You’re good,” she said simply, not removing her large, brown eyes from the page. Grantaire looked back at the drawing, then back at the girl. Her face was small and sweet, but rough around the edges. As if Paris had worn her down and tossed her aside, but she was stronger for it. Immediately, the man had an indescribable desire to paint her. The tangle of her hair, the curve of her waist, the sharp line of her cheek bone. She would be beautiful on canvas.

“ _Merci_ ,” he murmured, not sure what to do about her looming presence.

“You should show that to Enjolras. He’d be thrilled to get some art on our publicity, make it more eye catching. It might also appeal to his ego to see a picture of himself as our fearless leader,” she smiled and pulled back, then leaning against the bar.

“Oh, I wasn’t…this isn’t him, really…”

Eponine laughed. “It’s alright. He is the epitome of this rebellion, after all,” she said, her gaze shifting to the leader. She watched him for a while, eyes soft and thoughtful, before shaking the blush from her cheeks. She quickly reached out and grabbed Grantaire’s bottle from the bar and took a large gulp, then set the bottle back down. “Thanks,” she said, flashing him a smile and patting him on the back. “I’m serious about that drawing. Show him,”

With that, she slipped back into the crowd and took a seat beside a tall brunette with dark eyes. It wasn’t until she was completely out of ear shot that the artist even thought to ask her name, and then it was too late. He sighed and looked back down at the drawing. It would be ridiculous to offer up any sort of help for this cause. He was here as an experiment, an experiment which had proved negative. He did not plan to return to the meetings, let alone participate in them. He wasn’t even really an artist, he just painted with what little time he could muster. He’d never even showed his work to anyone, much less made money off of it. The woman was probably just flattering him, trying to make him feel welcome. It was kind of her, really. But not necessary.

Grantaire sat through the rest of the meeting, continuing his absentminded sketch and finishing off his bottle in enough time to order another. When it finally seemed that people were clearing out, he stood to leave.

“So, what did you think? Was it as bad as you thought it would be? Can I expect to see you at the next meeting?” Jehan danced over to him, eyes twinkling with expectancy. He vaguely resembled a small child who had just presented their parent with a very bad piece of art, hoping with all their might that it would be framed and hung in the drawing room.

Grantaire tried to think of a delicate way to put it. “Ah, Jehan. I’m afraid I still don’t really think that this is a good fit for me. I’m glad I came to experience it, and the people here are truly admirable, but I don’t think I’ll be returning,”

Jean’s face fell a bit as a loud Courfeyrac yelled “He’s talking about me!” from across the room. R laughed and, perhaps more from the drink than good judgment, sent him a smile and a quick wink, which caused the man to grin sloppily.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I hope to see you soon, for your shoe fitting,” Grantaire offered.

“ _Oui_ , I’ll be in in a few days,” The poet recovered quickly and spread his lips in a smile.

Grantaire’s gaze flitted once more to the woman who had praised his drawing, then down to the graffiti-ridden pamphlet in his hand. He took a deep breath and pressed the parchment into Jehan’s open palm. “Could you give this to Enjolras? Someone told me he might appreciate it,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. Jehan peered down at the paper and his eyes widened.

“Did you draw this?” he asked incredulously.

Grantaire nodded and stepped away from him. “Just…just give it to him, alright? And tell him that he presents some very…poignant views,”

Jehan raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he said softly. With that, Grantaire turned and left, feeling for all the world completely unsure of anything.


	3. A Convincing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jehan is a sass-master and Grantaire gives in to said sass.

Three days had passed since the meeting. Grantaire sat alone in his shoe shop, sewing together the last of Jehan’s shoes. He still had to put the sole in place and alter them once they were fitted, then add some final detailing and laces, but the main shells of them were complete. He narrowed his eyes so that he could squint enough to finish off the stitches, being in the process of denying the fact that his sight was not what it should be, then set the boots on the table. They were tall and dark brown, seemingly more elegant than other shoes he had made. He thought they fit the poet well.

Grantaire glanced around the shop. Business had been fairly slow recently, and he had finished all of his other orders. This was rather unfortunate, because working on the shoes had been a good distraction for the man. Too often he found his mind wandering off to the café, to Courfeyrac’s sloppy grin or the woman’s short comment on his art. Sometimes, he even found himself thinking about the golden haired leader and all of his talk about a shining future of freedom and equality. For a cause that he didn’t agree with, it was surprisingly difficult to get it out of his head. And now, with no leather to busy him, it seemed the perfect opportunity for it to invade his brain once again, armed with visions of passionate eyes and fierce conversation.

Finally, tired of the endless overthinking, Grantaire grabbed a sheet of parchment and sat down at his table, pen in hand. Drawing may just be a mindless hobby, but it _did_ take his mind off of things. It even tended to calm him down, on occasion, like some odd form of therapy. He dipped his pen in the ink and began sketching a figure. This time, it did not come as much of a surprise to him when it took the shape of Enjolras. Hair sweeping against his forehead, eyes ablaze, jawline prominent. This version of Enjolras was close-mouthed and solemn as he stared at the viewer, bent over a paper that he held a pen against. When Grantaire was finished with that one, he began another. And another. And within the hour, he managed to create a hefty stack of sketches, all featuring the blonde in all of his rebellious glory. It was only when he had to bring his face within inches of the sheet to see that he realized the light had faded, casting a grim aura over the shop. He stood, stretching out the crooks in his arm and back, and moved to light the candles around the room.

The sound of the door opening caught Grantaire off guard. He spun, startled, only to find a smiling Jehan removing his gloves as he stepped inside.  He raised an eyebrow at the man.

“Are you going to make a habit out of coming to my shop past dusk?” he mused, taking a step forward. Jehan laughed.

“Not intentionally, but perhaps. It’s a nice ambiance, don’t you think?”

“Ah, of course. You look lovely under candlelight,” R teased, making a grand bow with his hand. He jerked his head in the direction of the back room. “Your shoes await you, good _monsieur_ ,”

“Perfect,” The two entered the other room. Once the boots were in sight, the noise that came from Jean’s lips could not be described as anything but a squeal. He clapped his hands in delight and danced over to them. “Are these mine?” he asked excitedly, reaching out to run his hand along the leather. “They’re _gorgeous_ , ‘Taire,”

The shoemaker raised a brow at the nickname, but spoke nothing of it. He didn’t think it possible to deny the poet anything, much less now that he was so happy over a simple pair of boots. Grantaire nodded and picked them up off of the table. “Care to try them on?”

“I would like nothing more,” Jehan promptly sat in the chair against the wall and kicked his own shoes to the ground. Grantaire knelt to put the new ones on, then went to get a leather cord to lace them up with. When he was finished, he stepped back and smiled.

“So what do you think? The soles aren’t in them yet, but the top part will be done once I alter them to fit you,”

Jehan stood, staring in awe at his feet. “They’re _perfect_ ,” he chirped. “How did you capture everything I’ve ever wanted in a shoe without even asking me about it?”

Grantaire grinned and gave a sheepish shrug, then knelt back down to begin marking the alterations. He was happy to discover that there weren’t many that needed to be made. “I suppose I just made them with your personality in mind,”

“And what is my personality, ‘Taire?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Bright, happy, fashionable. They just felt like you,”

Jehan beamed. “You’re a very perceptive young man, did you know that?”

Grantaire pulled the laces tighter around his calves to see if the alteration had worked. It seemed to fit accordingly. “I don’t know about that. I just make shoes,” he said, adjusting the other boot.

“And draw,” Jean added. “Don’t forget draw,”

“Hardly,”

“Your modesty is becoming, but hardly necessary. You’re an excellent artist,” Jehan sat for a moment, just watching Grantaire with his head bent to the ground. Eventually, he added “Enjolras thinks so, too,”

Grantaire looked up, surprise evident in his eyes. “You gave it to him?”

“I said I would,”

“And he…he liked it?”

The smile that crept on Jean’s face was more of a knowing smirk than his usual expression, but it was not ill intended. He nodded. “He said he could use art like that to draw people in,”

Grantaire let the words settle in his head. The woman had been right. Enjolras wanted to use his drawings for the cause. He hadn’t the faintest idea why he had decided to give him the art in the first place, as he wasn’t intending on furthering it in any way. But he had, and now he was facing the consequences. He swallowed and looked down, beginning to unlace Jehan’s boots.

“That’s kind of him,”

“Enjolras isn’t kind. He’s honest. He wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t true. You should consider it,” The poet helped Grantaire by stepping out of the shoes and standing up.

“I told you, I’m really not interested in the cause, Jehan. It would be strange of me to take part in it,” R set the boots back on the table and made for the entrance back into the front room.

“Then why did you ask me to give the drawing to Enjolras?” The other man followed as he pulled his shoes back on.

Grantaire sighed and leaned against the front counter. “The woman said he might be interested, that’s all. It was a one time thing, I had no intention of going anywhere with it,”

Jehan raised his brows and smiled, giving a slow nod. “Right, of course. A one time thing,” he said, his fingers brushing over the mess of parchment still sprawled across the table. Grantaire felt his cheeks flush and his heart sink as he immediately dashed over to try and stuff them into a proper stack, though he failed to hide the majority of his depictions of the leader.

“I was just…distracting myself,” he explained quickly.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” the poet sang, laughing to himself as he stepped towards the door.

“Jean, it’s not like that,”  

“Of course. It’s not like anything, is it?” he asked, a hand on the knob.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grantaire finished with the papers and followed him to the entrance, searching him for any hidden meaning. The man simply flashed him a smile and swung open the door.

“Come to the meeting tomorrow,” he called.

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,”

“Good. Then you’ll remember how it ends,” And then he was gone.


	4. A Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire joins the revolution.

He would not go to the meeting. He refused. Jehan had peaked his curiosity enough last time, but he had made a decision and he was going to stick to it. Grantaire shuffled down the street carrying a large portfolio and pouch of various art supplies. Most Saturdays, he closed up shop and took the day for himself, going to the bar or running errands. This particular Saturday found him on his way to the outskirts of town, down by the docks so that he could paint the ships. He estimated that it was somewhere close to one o’clock, plenty of time to capture the light before it faded. He found a spot that seemed isolated enough and set up his easel.

Painting was almost more relaxing than drawing, he decided. Something about the methodical dipping of the brush and texture of the paint against the canvas was soothing, a calm escape from his thoughts. It allowed for him to find beauty in normality, extraordinary visions in ordinary sights. And when he was painting, he hardly ever had the capacity to think of anything but the correct shade of green to use, much less whether he should be volunteering his time to some silly revolution that was bound to fail. He allowed himself to be consumed by the art, working well into the evening as he perfected every detail of the calm bay blemished by docked ships.

“Should have guessed you could paint, too,” A soft voice startled him from behind. Grantaire turned his head to find the young woman from the café, arms folded and eyes fixated on his painting. He wiped his paint smudged hand on his pants and stepped forward to greet her.

“It’s just a hobby,” he explained, watching her eyes as they moved about the canvas.

“A damn good one, then,” she laughed, and Grantaire could see the evening light soften her olive cheeks. There was dirt smudged about her face, her hair tangled and falling loosely over her shoulders, her dress torn in places. But none of it made her any difference. She was admirably beautiful, the kind that fascinated more than astonished.

R smiled and looked down. “You flatter me. I don’t believe I ever caught your name, _mademoiselle_ ,”

“It’s Eponine. Not _mademoiselle_. None of that,” she said, waving the title off as if it were the silliest thing she’d ever heard. She stepped closer to inspect the art. “You like light, _non_?”

Grantaire thought for a moment. “I think you have to, if you’re going to paint. You have to like it enough to figure out how it affects things,”

Eponine chewed on the words for a while, reaching her hand out as if she wanted to run it along the canvas, but thought better of it. The paint still glistened in the sun. “That makes sense,”

“So what are you doing all the way over here?”

Eponine paused, looking at the painting a while longer before turning to face him again. She offered up a small smile. “Just running some errands,”

“I see,” Grantaire nodded, bending to pick up a jar of water he had been using. He swirled his brush around in the murky liquid and then stuck it back in his pouch, then dumped the water in the grass. “Won’t you be late for your meeting, _mademoiselle_?”

“Eponine,” she corrected. “And no later than you, I presume. We’ve got an hour yet,”

“Ah, I’ll not be attending. I just came to watch the other day, I don’t plan on making a habit of it,”

Eponine’s brow furrowed. She took a step towards Grantaire. “What? But you’ve got to come! You’ve got to help us! You already missed the rally, but there will be more. We need someone with your skill set,” she said, a plea evident on her face. The artist was taken aback by the urgency with which she seemed to need him, not expecting to be half as important as she let on. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing seemed to come out. “Just come with me,” she said finally.

“Eponine, I’m not…like you. Not just you, everyone in that café. I don’t believe that equality will come or France will be free. I mean, perhaps one day, but not soon. Not because of us. I can’t put effort into a cause for which I have no passion. It would be lying, to myself and to everyone around me,”

The girl scowled. “Oh, shut up,”

“Excuse me?” R blinked, thinking perhaps he had heard her wrong.

“I understand, you don’t believe in anything—“

“I never said _anything_ —“

“You don’t believe in _us_. But the fact is, we do. And I know you love that. I know you love our little group of misfits and how determined we are, despite the dire odds. You act like we don’t know that there’s a chance we’ll fail, but we do. Of course we do. You can’t plan a revolution without that possibility. But you also can’t plan a revolution if you _expect_ to fail. You may not be able to find it in yourself to believe otherwise, but I saw you give that drawing to Jehan. There’s a part of you that wants to help. _Act_ on that part,”

Grantaire stood blinking at the girl, dazed by her sudden ferocity. He shook his head, more in disbelief than disagreement. He had never met a woman with such little reserve. “Don’t act like you know what I’m thinking,”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Eponine dared, glaring at him with her arms folded across her chest. He stood in stunned silence for a moment, unable to speak. After a while, she nodded and the tension in her shoulders released. “That’s what I thought. Come on, then. We better start walking if we’re going to make it on time. And Enjolras will have our heads if we’re late,”

The girl hiked up her dress and began climbing up the hill towards the main street without a second glance. Grantaire found himself still unable to move for a few moments, shocked by the blunt accuracy of the entire conversation. Being someone who observed most everything, he was not used to being the one under speculation, and scarcer still was a report so spot-on. The scariest part was that he himself had not been able to realize as much about his thoughts until they came spilling from the brunette’s lips, and immediately he knew they were true.

With a heavy sigh and feeling of lost control, he moved to pack up his easel and paints. The canvas was still wet, but he held out it carefully so that it wouldn’t smudge and hurried to catch up with the girl.

“We’ve got to stop by my flat so that I can drop off my things,” he mentioned.

“Hurry up, then. You’ve made me late,”

“ _I’ve_ made you late?” he asked incredulously, matching her pace. “You’re the one that gave me a whole speech about my ethics,”

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Well I wouldn’t have _had_ to if you’d just come to the damn meeting in the first place,”

“This is not my fault,”

Eponine simply laughed and continued walking, the two of them making good time, despite Grantaire’s heavy load. Eventually, he stopped just in front of the shoe shop, above which he resided.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, and took the steps two at a time. He leaned the painting against the wall as carefully as he could, so as not to smear it, and deposited his things on the unmade bed. On his way out, he noticed a bit of wine still left at the bottom of a bottle beside his dresser and gulped it down quickly. A bit of alcohol was always good for calming his nerves.

Back on the street, Eponine was leaning against the shop with her eyes fixed on the setting sun. She pushed herself off of the wall when Grantaire emerged from inside. “Are you quite finished?” she drawled.

“Oh, get on with it,”

It only took them twenty minutes from there to reach the café, but once they arrived, it was clear that it had not been soon enough.

“Thank you for joining us,” Enjolras greeted them with his face set in a cool expression of unamusement. Eponine looked down at her feet as she hurried in and took a seat beside the same tall brunette as she had sat earlier.

“Sorry,” she said. The fierce attitude from earlier seemed to have completely vanished, replaced by a meek woman who resembled more of a shy, young girl. Puzzled, Grantaire held the leader’s gaze for a moment too long before sitting beside Jehan, who was decked out in a grin wide enough to stretch across Paris.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispered.

“Yes, well. Thank Eponine for that,”

Jean tilted his head, but asked no more of him, as the meeting quickly progressed. Grantaire found it harder to sit through the entirety of it without something to doodle on, but he occupied himself by memorizing the detail of Enjolras’ fierce features. In coming here, he might as well have agreed to create the art for the pamphlets and publicity. It would benefit them all if he knew his subject’s face well enough to draw it accurately.

After an hour or so, the meeting broke off into separate sections and chatter filled the room. Jehan immediately turned to Grantaire, eyes bright with curiosity.

“What did she say to you that made you change your mind?” he asked excitedly.

Grantaire glanced over at Eponine, who was engaged in rich conversation with brunette. Every so often, her eyes darted over to the blonde leader, then quickly flitted back to her friend. R wondered idly if they were talking about him.

“She just…told me how much you needed an artist,” he shrugged.

“Well, I wouldn’t say we _need_ one, but your work had lots of potential. Even if you can’t find it within yourself to be punctual to our meetings,” the voice emerged from in front of them, and Grantaire lifted his head to see Enjolras’ tall figure. He swallowed, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“Enjolras,” he started, standing so that he was at eye level with him. Jehan left to sift his fingers through Courfeyrac’s raven hair and tease him about something or other. “I…sorry about that. Er…I wasn’t sure if I was going to come,”

“I see. Well, then. I suppose late is better than never,” he reached inside his red waistcoat and retrieved a folded piece of parchment which looked extremely familiar. He held it out to Grantaire. “Did you draw this?”

R looked down at the sketch, which had in fact been created under his hand. He nodded. “ _Oui_ ,”

“It’s good, and I think we could definitely use your skill. Are you interested in designing some sort of art for the cover of our pamphlets? Or perhaps an emblem that we can make into a seal,”

Grantaire blinked in surprise. Even though Jehan had told him that Enjolras said his art was good, it seemed different coming from his lips. Before, hearing that he wanted him to help with the cause had seemed like something he should avoid. But now that he was standing before the young leader, his drawing in his hand and the invitation waiting before him, he felt honored. Excited, even, to be able to offer something of himself, though he didn’t know what had changed. He glanced over and saw Eponine watching the two of them intently, quickly averting her eyes when their gazes met.

“I’ll do what I can,” he agreed.

“Excellent. Feel free to begin work on any of the pamphlets. I’ve got to discuss something with Combeferre, but we can go over ideas for the emblem another day. Thank you for your help, Grantaire. It does not go unnoticed,” Enjolras gave him a firm pat on the arm, then left to find his second in command.

Grantaire stood for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. He briefly held eye contact with Eponine, who smiled and sent him a small wave from across the room. He did not return it, instead sitting back down at the table and ordering himself a bottle of wine.

 _I think I just joined a revolution_ , he thought. 


	5. A Discovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jehan and Courfeyrac stop being idiots and kiss, and Grantaire discovers something about his friend.

Jehan nearly dropped his basket of flowers as he fumbled for the key to his apartment. He had been to the small park on the edge of the city, which was hemorrhaging wildflowers this time of year, and had taken a small amount for himself. The buds always seemed to brighten up his flat.

Finally, after watching the basket almost plummet to the ground a final time, he got the door open and shuffled inside, dropping his journal and waistcoat on the chair by the bed. The young man did not keep his quarters particularly tidy, but the mess appeared to have a homely sense of order about it, nonetheless. Clothes and books were stacked in various odd piles around the rooms, a scattering of pages propped up against shelves and other furniture. He never left a dirty plate or handkerchief available to the careful eye, and he never left his bed unmade. That, with the added ambiance of joy he found in placing vases of flowers on every imaginable surface, summed up to be a lovely living arrangement, and anyone who witnessed it could not help but agree.

The poet drifted to the kitchen, where he arranged his freshly picked blooms and distributed them accordingly, then put the kettle on for a warm cup of tea. It had been a long day, though a fruitful one, and he was ready to relax with a book and a mug. It was, of course, just as he was daydreaming of the armchair by the fire that he heard a loud rapping on his door. He considered for a brief moment the pros of ignoring it and continuing on to his beloved spot before the flames, but eventually gave in to the rapid pounding.

“Courfeyrac,” he greeted with surprise upon opening the door. The raven haired man smiled brightly and pushed into Jehan’s house uninvited, immediately turning his head to take everything in. “What a surprise!”

The other cast his eyes around the apartment slowly, as if he were in awe of it all. After a moment, he spun to look at his host and grinned. “This is exactly as I imagined it would be,” he exclaimed, showing himself to the kitchen to look around in the same excited fashion.

Jean raised his eyebrow, amused, as he followed Courfeyrac into the other room. “Is it?”

“To a tee,”

“Well, I’m glad my flat satisfied your fantasies, Courf,” he laughed.

The man flashed him a wide grin. “It’s not the flat that I have fantasies about,”

And, though Courfeyrac was always flirtatious and practically offered himself to anything that breathed, often with little seriousness or particular investment in the person, the comment brought a flush of pink to the poet’s cheeks. He cast his eyes downward and laughed quietly to himself. Such a blunt man was hard to match.

“Have I made you blush, _mon poéte_?” Courfeyrac asked, taking a step towards him.

Jehan brought a hand to his cheek and let out a laugh that was not intended to sound so nervous. “So you have,” he murmured, thankful that the kettle began screeching at that very moment. He rushed to take it off the fire and steeped a spoonful of tea leaves in his mug. “Care for a cup?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Sounds perfect,”

The slighter man prepared the two cups and blew on them both to calm the steam. When he turned around, he found his guest leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze firmly cast upon Jehan’s elegant face. He averted his eyes quickly, not used to being watched, but Courfeyrac did not waiver.

“Here you are,” He handed Courf a steaming mug, which he gratefully accepted before leaning back against the wall. Jehan sipped at the liquid for a moment, then rose his eyes and spoke. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Can a man not call upon his dear friend without an ulterior motive?” Courfeyrac asked, raising his brow over the mug as he took a long sip.

Jehan opened his mouth, then shut it again, trying to think of a decent response. “I…I didn’t mean it like that. Of course, you can stop by any time you like. It’s just that you…well, you haven’t before,” he pointed out. The taller of the two nodded and shrugged nonchalantly.

“This is true. But there’s a first time for everything,”

Jehan watched him a moment, then moved to push some papers off of the sofa in the living room. “Have a seat, _mon ami_ ,” he offered, shoving the last of his pages beneath the couch. Courfeyrac smiled and glanced down at the mess as he obliged.

“Your poetry?”

Jean nodded, looking away sheepishly. He really did write an absurd amount. He wasn’t even sure if half of it made any sense, but it seemed that there was a perpetual word on the tip of his tongue, and so often he found himself jotting down substitutions. He had yet to write a truly satisfying poem, though. One that satisfied that feeling of almost-there. Courfeyrac bent and picked up a crumpled sheet from the floor.

“Oh, don’t do that—“ Jehan muttered, reaching for the parchment. Courf quickly held it away, grinning childishly as he looked up and tried to decipher it.

“ _Too often, amidst our sweet caress, I find/Little comfort in your skin_ ,” he read difficultly as Jean groaned and set his tea down so that he could climb over the man and grasp at the poem. His attempts were proving unsatisfactory, however, as Courfeyrac continued to hold it further and further away, wrapping his arm around the poet’s small waist to keep him from getting to it. “ _And in the earliest dawn I know no words of romance/But the promises you place in my open hand_ ,”

“Courfeyrac, stop!” he squealed, struggling against the larger man’s firm grip.

“ _But should I hold them to the light/Inspect them as if a golden coin/I should think they would not look so blissful_ ,” Jehan’s protests grew weaker, but he continued to bat at his grinning friend’s chest as the words continued to spill from his mouth. “ _You love like a mad man/But I have become no more than your asylum_ ,” He finished the poem, but kept it held in the air, frozen for a moment. Jehan slowly stopped his pounding and stared at him. His cheeks were bright with blush and his lips parted in protest as he watched Courfeyrac slowly turn his head to face him.

“Jehan,” he said softly. “I knew you were a poet, but this is…this is incredible,”

Jean’s eyes grew wide and his heart couldn’t decide whether to increase its speed or skip a beat. “No, it isn’t. I mean…thank you, truly. But that’s…that’s just a stupid thing I wrote a while ago. It’s moronic, really,”

Courfeyrac held his gaze for a while, only faltering to flick his eyes down to the poet’s lips and back up again. Jehan became painfully aware of his friend’s arm still wrapped tightly around his waist, their torsos pressed together and his legs wrapped around the other’s. He curled his fingers into the man’s shirt, where they had been resting.

“If that’s moronic, then I’d like to read the work you’re proud of,” he said, nearly a whisper.

Jehan held his breath, fighting the urge to look away. “I’m not sure I’ve quite written that one, yet,” he laughed softly.

Courfeyrac ran his eyes over the poet one last time, taking in his every movement and feature—the soft elegance of his jaw, the unkempt hair that sat wild atop his head, the bright rouge that betrayed his cheeks. And then he closed the short distance between them, his lips urging against the other’s with a softness he did not often allow. Jehan’s breath hitched in an utterly attractive fashion, but he quickly relaxed into the kiss and allowed his lips to part for the man, who took advantage of the opportunity and slid his tongue gently between them. Courfeyrac dropped the paper and let it drift to the floor, wrapping the now free arm behind Jean’s head and curling his fingers in his hair. He held him close, an action which was complimented by the poet’s own need to press against him, his hands still gripping the collar of his blouse.

Jehan got particularly lost in the exchange, as he opened his eyes with apparent surprise once Courfeyrac pulled away. It was as if he had expected the kiss to last forever, and the premature termination of it was highly unwelcome. Courfeyrac laughed at the frustrated expression on the poet’s face and brushed a thumb across his cheek.

“You kissed me,” Jean stated bluntly. This only made Courf smile wider.

“And you kissed me,” he replied. The other seemed to think this over, as if considering it for the first time. Eventually, he nodded.

“You taste like peppermint,” he said, half in a daze. “I always imagined you’d taste like apples, but you taste like peppermint,”

Courfeyrac’s smile faded as he searched Jean’s eyes, his hand still resting on his cheek. “Have I disappointed you?”

Jehan’s eyes widened and he shook his head, then hesitantly leaned down to steal another quick kiss from the man. He smiled to himself upon pulling away. “I like peppermint,”

                                                                                                    •••                    

Grantaire sketched out the last of his drawing on the cover of one of Enjolras’ pamphlets. It featured an image similar to the first he had sketched, this one with much more shading that darkened the perfect spots to highlight the man, making him appear almost god-like, with his raised flag and fierce eyes. The artist set down his pen and leaned back, inspecting the art from a difference. It was satisfying enough, he supposed. And at least it was the last. He placed the pamphlet on top of a large stack that he had taken (with permission) from the café. Each of them were appropriately illustrated now, thanks to his lack of sleep and strong denial of the shoe shop. He sighed and got up to stretch his legs, looking around the room. Jehan’s boots were nearly finished and sat tall and proud on the table. The other orders were a bit less promising, and lay in various stages of completion about the room. He dragged his hand over the cut leather and entered into the front room, where he could see out the window that the light was smoldering into dusk. It would do him well to get out for a bit, having sat for so many hours working on the pamphlets. A walk seemed like the perfect thing, actually. He donned his deep green waistcoat and locked up the shop.

It was only after he had been walking for a good twenty minutes, enjoying the fine breeze of near-evening and inhaling deep breaths of crisp air, that he realized he was heading in the direction of the docks where had painted the other day. It seemed as good an idea as any, and he imagined it would look twice as beautiful in the setting sun, so he continued on. He found that he was right. The sun seemed to sink into the water, its orange reflection as bright as the thing itself, and the ships looked golden in its light. Grantaire strolled down, closer to the water, where a handful of passerby were milling around.

R watched the sun set over the subtle waves. Soon enough, he and everything around him was blanketed in a night blacker than he had seen in a long while. It was not frightening or unwelcome, rather a nice shift that left him in an unexplainable good mood. He wandered down the shoreline, nodding politely as he passed by a few fellow strollers.

“Care for a round, _monsieur_?” A voice asked from behind. It was alarmingly close, at least for him not having known it was there prior. He turned, but could hardly make out the figure in the dark.

“Excuse me?”

“A round, beneath the dock perhaps? Twelve sous is all it costs, _monsieur_. Let me show you a good time,” He felt a soft hand reach out and touch his arm, but he did not shy away from it so much as he did from the striking familiarity of the voice. He squinted, leaning in to try and make out the head of brown tangles.

“Eponine?” he asked, noticing the curve of her shoulders that he had only just the other day imagined painting.

The girl gasped, lifting her hand to her mouth as she backed away quickly.

“Uh…no. No, _monsieur_ , I think you have me mistaken. I don’t know any Eponine, _monsieur._ Must be the wrong girl,”

Grantaire stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Eponine, I know it’s you,” he murmured.

“No!” she cried, pushing him off quickly. “No, you have me mistaken! It’s not me! She’s not me!” He could hear her choke on her own words, the tears threatening her eyes evident in her voice. He pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her, allowing her face to fall against his chest. He began to stroke the mess of her hair gently.

“It’s alright, Eponine,” he said against her hair. “You’re alright,”

Her shoulders sagged against him and she made no more efforts to pull away, simply collapsed against his capable form and relishing in the feeling of being held. He let her rest there a moment, shaking silently, before pulling her back and holding her at arm’s length.

“What are you doing, _mon ami_? You don’t deserve this,”

The girl wiped her nose roughly and looked down. “Haven’t got much choice,”

Grantaire’s eyes were beginning to adjust, and he could see her more clearly now. Her dirt smudged face was wet with tears, her lips closed tight in an effort to stop the rest from leaking out.

“There will always be alternatives to this,” R assured. “We’ll find you work in a factory,”

“They won’t take me. I’ve a criminal record, they’ll have none of it,”

“Your father’s inn?”

Eponine let out a sharp laugh, which sounded more empty than amused. “He’s the one that told me it would be a good idea. Said the inn wasn’t making enough revenue, and I’d have to make up for it somehow,”

Grantaire felt his stomach sink. He gripped the girl more tightly without realizing it and grit his teeth harsh against each other. For a father to do something so cruel to his own child, when he was meant to be protecting her...It made him physically ill.

“You’ll move into my flat above the shoe shop,” he said decidedly.

“I won’t accept your charity, Grantaire,”

“I don’t have time for your pride—“

“I said _no_ ,” she growled, pulling away quickly. Grantaire was taken aback by the suddenness of it and clutched his hand to his side.

“Eponine—“

“I’m sorry we bumped into each other like this, Grantaire. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone. Have a good night,” she pulled her shall around her tightly and continued walking down the dark path to the docks.

“Eponine!” Grantaire yelled after her, but she only sped up her pace. He nearly made to sprint in her direction, but thought better of it. Something told him she was not one to be reasoned with, no matter how badly he wanted to try. 


End file.
